“Yes,” said she, “I shall marry when one man asks me.”
“Who is he?”
“I have never met him,” she muttered, dreamily. “I have never met but one man like him.”
Vane took his oar again. “She meant me to think she meant me,” he thought, and rowed vigorously. She seemed unconscious of the change of motion, and her hand, still trailing in the water, wet her white sleeve. Vane stopped rowing and seated himself beside her. “You are wetting your arm,” said he, lifting her hand from the water. She shall love me, he thought to himself, as he looked at her. A moment later he had taken her hand in his, and pushing the sleeve back from the arm kissed it passionately. The woman made no sign for a moment or two; then, as the man still held her hand, she came to herself with a little shudder. “O don’t, Mr. Vane, pray don’t—oh, I ought not to have let you do it—oh, pray go back——.” Vane left her hand and looked at her steadfastly. “Oh, I ought not to have spoken so,” she went on, with a little moan, “but I pitied you so——. O Mr. Vane, I was so sorry for you, that I forgot; and you were looking at me, and you seemed to care so much——”
“You told me of imaginary conversations you sometimes had with me,” said Vane. “Cannot you tell me what they were?”
“Oh, I ought not to tell you,” said she, breathlessly. “Can we not go home? Will you not row me back?”
Vane slowly resumed his seat. “We each now owe the other forgiveness,” said he. “If you would try to love me, I think I would wait.” The girl in front of him shuddered again, and bent her head away, till he saw where her hair was pencilled into the ivory neck; then she spoke, slowly and simply. “I have sometimes fancied that I could learn to care for you, Mr. Vane—not now, not now—after a great many years, perhaps.”
Vane was silent for some minutes. Then, as they neared the shore, he spoke in a clear undertone. “Will you promise to tell me, if you ever care for any one else—if I wait, Miss Thomas?”
She bowed her head still lower, and Vane took her hand again and held it for a moment. He left in it the old lace handkerchief, still burned at the edges. “When you send it back to me, I shall know what it means,” he said, and kissed it. “But while you still keep it, I shall hope.”
“Oh, I am wrong in saying this,” she sighed. “I may never care for you. And yet in certain ways I care for you so much. It seems sometimes to me that I have no heart. I don’t think I am worthy of you.” She took the handkerchief and put it in her pocket.